


Land's End

by Janissa11



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Pre-Series, Supernatural - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-15
Updated: 2009-11-15
Packaged: 2017-10-02 21:43:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janissa11/pseuds/Janissa11
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In limbo after Sam goes to Stanford and John heads out on a solo hunt, and short on cash, Dean takes a job that just may be more dangerous than the one he already has: crab fishing in the Bering Sea. This is not quite a crossover with "Deadliest Catch," but borderline.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

There's some kind of weird poetic justice, something, to doing a job in Diablo, Washington. Never mind there's no demon involved, just a ghost with way too many of the wrong kinds of notches in her bedpost. It's still kind of funny, the funny that makes him think about calling, thinking "Sam would laugh. He'd totally laugh."

He doesn't call Sam, but he does call Dad, gets his voice mail -- big surprise there -- and says, "Piece of cake. You still in Mississippi? Call me."

It isn't, strictly speaking, cake time. Or Miller time. He's flat broke, the Impala's in serious need of some TLC, and it's getting cold.

"You want money, oughta come work with me." Larry swigs from his bottle of beer and gives Dean a what-the-hell look. "Lots of it up north. You done me a big-ass favor here, anyway, kid, I owe you. Put in the good word for you."

Dean smiles and gives a polite cough of a laugh. "All due respect, man -- me and fish, not exactly a marriage made in heaven."

"Crab, Deano. King crab. Fuckers big as the front seat on that jalopy of yours."

It stings to hear her called that, but no denying she's beat up, and that confident purr of the engine's down to sounding kinda tubercular. Dean looks away. After a moment he asks, "How much money?"

"Depends on the catch, that kinda thing. Lots of variables."

Dean glances over his shoulder at Larry's expensive truck, and lifts an eyebrow. "How much you make last season?"

A slow grin lifts Larry's whiskered cheeks. "Fifty large, and change."

Dean just stares at him. "Get out."

"Greenhorn like you'd be, wouldn't make as much as us. Skipper'll set a fixed rate, but I tell you what: it'll be better money by a long shot than anything you'll find on the mainland."

"You made fifty fucking thousand dollars?"

"And that's just one trip out. There's more than one thing to fish out there. Get on with a good boat, good crew -- you wind up working six months out of the year and taking home a couple hundred grand."

Hell, even half of Larry's take would fund Dean and his dad a good long time. They live cheap anyway, always had to, and a serious chunk of change like this could mean giving up the fake plastic for a while, maybe not having to hustle for food and shelter. Be frugal with it, it'll see them through.

He pictures Dad's face, that respect, and even though a part of him is still sitting off to the side going, "I dunno about this, dude," he's nodding. "Shit," he breathes. "If you got the fucking motherlode up there, why aren't more guys lining up for the job?"

Larry takes the time to drink more of his beer, and sets the bottle carefully on the table. "Because it's hard goddamn work," he says.

"Fuck that. For that kind of money? I'd swim after the fuckers myself."

"Not in water that's thirty-four degrees." The smile is gone from Larry's face; he looks harder, older than his years. "It's dangerous."

Dean grins. "My middle name, dude."

"I'm serious. I know you can handle yourself; I seen it." Larry ducks his head once, and Dean thinks about that tangle on the stairs, the cold feel of that ghost's anger, and nods, too. "But it's long hours, colder than you feel like you can bear, and the work's hard. Each of those pots weigh eight hundred pounds. And that's empty. With a catch? Maybe a ton and a half." He lifts his chin. "Outfit I work with, we carry 220 pots."

Dean shakes his head. "I got no problem with hard work. Look, you pay me like that, I'm not gonna bitch."

Larry snorts. "Oh, you'll bitch about it. Everybody does."

"So when do we leave?"

"Can't guarantee nothing." Larry watches him, then gives a nod. "Lemme make a call."

Dean has time to drink most of another one of Larry's beers and spend a little of the money in his head before Larry comes back. Larry's wife Ann is making supper, and it smells incredible.

"So?" Dean asks, watching him carefully.

"Allan Orr got in a car wreck last week." Larry sits, shaking his head. "Gonna miss the season. So I asked Gib, told him I had a guy down here, looked like a likely prospect. Gib said come on over, talk to him."

"Gib?"

"The skipper."

"Boss, huh."

Larry's smiling, but it isn't an easy look. "More like God."

Dean gives a slow nod. "I can work with that."

"You sure about this? It ain't something you can just walk away from if you change your mind. Not unless you like swimming in water that's just about freezing."

"Dude, you think what I do is easy?" Dean snorts, looks away. "Get my ass kicked half the time. I can handle it."

"All right, then," Larry says. "If Gib likes you, I'd say you got a job."

"Rock on," Dean whispers, and drains his bottle.

* * *

Gib Fallows is a big guy, tall and looks heavy, but Dean gauges solid muscle under the layer of blubber. Gib also has what Dean's pretty sure is a vanishing tolerance for bullshit, and the few thoughts Dean has had about making up some kind of fictional fishing history go flying out the living-room window. He's never even baited a goddamn hook before, and Gib can tell.

"So Larry tells me you can handle yourself."

"Yes," Dean says without hesitating.

Gib nods and looks away with a shrug. "Hard fucking work, and you got no experience." He exhales smoke. "You screw up out there, we all pay for it."

Dean nods. Gib's a little like Dad, hard in a lot of the same ways, unsmiling, blue eyes chilly and hard to read. It goes weird with the nice house in the 'burbs, the good-looking wife and the cute kid, still staring raptly at Dean from his perch on a chair across the room. Kid's got his dad's blue eyes, and his mom's red hair.

"Look," Dean finally says, uneasily, "you want a resume, I don't got one. Larry tell you how he met me?"

Gib's looking at him again, clear cold gaze like an x-ray scoping out his bones. "Yeah. He did."

"You believe him?"

"Doesn't matter. This is a business, kid, not some big-seas adventure. You won't need guns and crap where we're going."

"All right, what DO I need?"

The flicker of a smile comes and goes, fast as a minnow flashing through a brook. "Guts. Muscle. Balls."

Dean grins. "Those I got."

"What's that?" The red-haired kid is suddenly standing by Dean's knee, reaching out to touch the pendant dangling against his shirt.

Dean looks down at him. "It's an amulet. For protection."

"From what?"

"All kinds of things."

"Bad things."

Dean nods gravely. "Pretty bad sometimes, yeah."

The boy's blue eyes blink slowly. "Does it work?"

"Yeah. So far."

"My dad needs one of those. Mom says it's really dangerous on the boat."

Dean glances at Gib, sees him watching. "What can I say," he says lightly. "I'm a good-luck charm."

That quick-gone smile appears and leaves again, and Gib sighs and stands up. "All right," he says. "You get seasick, kid?"

"No idea," Dean replies honestly. "This mean I got the job?"

"It means we head out day after tomorrow, and that's a week where I see if you got any sea-legs, show you a thing or two."

"Fishing?"

Gib snorts. "Season doesn't start for a couple of weeks. Call it a shake-down cruise. You got gear?"

He has no idea what kind of gear a damn crab jockey should have, and Gib looks at his face and gets a kind of disgusted look. "Larry'll tell you what you need."

"If it takes green," Dean says slowly, "it ain't happening. I'm busted." Kind of hurts to admit, but it's pretty much impossible to lie right to Gib's face. Almost supernatural, how the guy seems to compel the truth.

Gib thinks about it, then says, "All right, then. Larry knows where to take you. It's coming out of your pay."

"All right."

"Look, kid." Gib lights another cigarette -- Dean's counted three so far, and this conversation's only lasted about ten minutes -- and tosses the lighter on the coffee table. "Every season somebody loses a guy or three. Last year it was eight, and six of those on a ship that went down. It wasn't because somebody wasn't doing his job; it's the _job_." He leans forward, smoke curling from his nostrils. "You think this is gonna be easy money, don't you?"

"No, sir," Dean says stiffly. "I don't."

Gil watches him, and leans back in his chair again. "Get your gear. 5:00am Saturday, you miss the boat, we're gone."

"I'll be there."

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

"Look, you wash out, there's longshoreman work. Canneries, maybe." Larry's not even looking at him, just piling shit on the counter, and Dean's brain is adding up figures, thinking he's gonna be a thousand in the hole before he even sees what kind of tin can they'll be shipping out in. "Join the union, pay's all right."

"I'm not gonna wash out," Dean says thinly.

Larry comes back with a slicker and adds it to the pile. "Maybe not."

He's right about the cost, notes the respect on the sales guy's face when he sees the logo on Larry's jacket. The _Long Tall Sally_, the name of the boat, and a mermaid curled seductively around the S. Named for Gib's redheaded wife, but that picture doesn't look anything like the apple-cheeked woman Dean met. The mermaid sure as hell hasn't had all those kids.

It feels like an amputation, leaving the Impala behind, but it ain't like he can stow her under a bunk on board. He leaves her in long-term parking, covered so she won't get eaten alive by salty Washington air, and mentally consigns another chunk of his pay to oblivion.

Back at the motel he packs the new gear, sticks his Glock in a plastic bag at the bottom of his duffel with a few extra magazines. The knife goes in a bag, too. He's seen what salt does to metal, and the only real consolation is that demons really, really hate salt water. If he runs into a triton, or you know, freaking Poseidon or whoever out there, he'll just have to improvise.

But he takes a few things, just in case. Rue, sage, arnica. Shipmates'll probably think it's pot, but who the fuck cares as long as they don't try to smoke it. A bottle of holy water, and a crucifix. One of the Glock's magazines holds iron rounds, and another has three silver bullets. He hopes he'll be thinking straight if he has to load, remembers which is which.

Larry bangs on his door at three-ungodly-thirty in the morning, and Dean sleepwalks his gear to the truck, nods wearily at Larry's wife and slumps in the back seat. It's cold, wet, and disgusting outside, and all things being equal, he'd rather be in fucking Boise.

It's too dark to see the boat. All he can tell is it's big and floating. Larry's beaming, though, and there's all kinds of talking and back-slapping going on, and Dean just stands there waiting for someone to tell him what to do. It's raining harder, and he wonders just what the hell he's gotten himself into.

"Dean here's our greenhorn," Larry says, and grabs Dean's shoulder, gives him a shake. It's sort of like getting a concussion, only without the actual impact. "Dean, this is Dave, Alex, and Gary."

Dean nods at the three random guys, who kinda smirk at him. "Greenhorn," one of them says -- he thinks that might be Dave. "So you never fished for crab before?"

Dean clears his throat. "Ate one once. Hated it."

Somebody else snickers. "Learn to love it, boy. Money in the bank."

"Larry, where'd you find this guy?" It's the tallest of the three, practically Sam's height, either Alex or Gary.

"He's a good man. He'll do all right."

"Too damn pretty to be a crabber."

There's real laughter this time, and Dean grits his teeth and feels his hands clenching into fists while the tall dude says, "Pretty Boy, salt water's bad for your skin, didn't you hear that?"

"Brought my moisturizer," Dean says, monotone, and that gets an even louder laugh.

"Come on then," Alex-or-Gary says. "Skipper's trying to be first one out."

* * *

The boat stinks. Fuel and rust and underneath it, the reek of old fish. Dean swallows and hauls his gear, feeling his toes curl while the floor -- deck, he reminds himself -- moves lazily beneath his feet. Larry takes him across and down into the hold, narrow hallways and the ancient odor of unwashed bodies to add to the ambience.

"Bunks're this way," Larry says. He's still grinning, like being here's the best thing imaginable, and Dean follows him to a tiny room, slings his gear on a bunk when Larry pats the mattress. "Greenhorn gets the top bunk."

"Farthest to fall," Dean mumbles, and smiles a little when Larry laughs.

Back up on deck, it's still dark and raining like a bitch, and the crew have jobs to do, all except Dean, who just tries not to get in the way. He can see better now, scans the line of a big thumb crane, the metal bulk of dozens of cages stacked two or three high over more than half the deck.

"Crab pots," Tall Guy says behind him. "Ever seen one, Pretty Boy?"

Dean shakes his head.

"Gonna get real familiar with them. Greenhorn handles the bait."

"Oh, goody," says Dean under his breath.

Finally whatever they're all doing appears to be done, and everyone's waving and yelling at people on shore, not that you can actually see any of them very well. Dean stands back and shoves his hands in his pockets. Wonders just how much hell Sammy would have given him, if he'd known Dean was agreeing to this.

Maybe a whole lot. Maybe Sammy just would have done more shrugging and looking like he'd rather be someplace else, like he did his senior year.

Got his wish. Screw him.

When the boat steers out into the lock, Larry stops at Dean's side. "Wanna call anybody, better do it here," he says. "Reception's crappy once we leave the coast."

He gets Dad's voice mail -- starting to think there's no other actual service on the guy's line, just a message line -- and says, "Yeah, Dad, ah -- Something's come up, gonna be out of pocket for a little while. Heard about a job, gonna check it out. I'll, ah. Yeah, talk to you soon. All right."

He swallows and starts to put the phone back in his pocket, and then reconsiders and trots back down to the crew quarters. Last thing he needs is to drop it in fucking Puget Sound.

* * *

"There's electrics and hydraulics. You know anything about engines?"

Gary's got this look on his face, like no way will Pretty Boy risk breaking a nail on a damn engine part. Dean looks at him. "Thing or two."

"This isn't a car, man. It's --"

"Bigger, yeah, I see that. I grasp the concepts, dude."

Gary looks away. "Yeah, okay."

There really isn't that much to do. He's poked around the ship, figured out the things no one's tried to show him yet. It's pretty freaking boring, and he's only been here about three hours.

Also, he's feeling sick as a dog.

He sucks it up another hour, and then the boat does another nauseating sideways lurch and that's it. The guys are already laughing while he horks over the rail, funniest goddamn thing they've ever seen.

When there's nothing left to throw up, Larry takes pity on him, takes him down below and shows him where the head is. "Don't worry about it," he says, although he's kinda smiling a little. "Believe me, when the weather gets bad enough you won't be the only guy here blowing chunks."

Dean's stomach lurches again, and he closes his eyes.

"You know, best thing if you can do it is stand on deck. Watch the horizon. Keeps you grounded."

He nods and then claps his hand over his mouth, groping his way to the toilet.

It's a couple of days before he sees the deck, the horizon, or much of anything but his bunk and the head. Even when he isn't puking he's feeling like puking, so sick he gives some serious consideration to taking out the Glock and putting one of his silver bullets to good use. Hey, if he's gonna eat a bullet, might as well be a pretty shiny one.

Larry and Dave bring him crackers, medicine, a bunch of crap he just pukes up again. And finally -- he can't tell if it's been days, weeks, maybe years later -- somebody turns on the lights and he squints over and sees the captain standing there.

"Come on." Gib grabs his shoulder, shakes him, not hard. "Need some daylight."

It actually smells pretty good in the hallway, even if it's cold as shit. Then again, if it isn't puke it smells like roses. He's shaking and the deck still feels alien under his feet, and when Gib hauls him up on deck the sun hits him like a clenched fist.

"It's aliiiive," Dave calls, and the guys give him a little shit, but it's not as bad as Dean had figured it would be.

"Crackers," Larry says. "Does the trick."

"Coke." Gary looks around. "Coca-COLA, you fuckheads."

"Too heavy."

Larry grabs Alex and slings an arm over his shoulders. "Kiddo here yacked all the way to Dutch last season. Didn't you?"

Alex is younger than the other guys, looks maybe a year older than Sammy. He just shrugs. "I got over it. He will, too."

"Course he will."

"Hopefully faster than you," Gib says.

"Gimme a break, Dad."

And that's how Dean figures out this is a family boat. Over food in the narrow, neat galley, Gary explains that Alex is Gib's son and Gary himself is Gib's cousin. It's Alex's second season, and according to everyone, after a rocky start he did just fine. Last season the Sally cleared her best take since her maiden season, and nobody plans to do anything but better this year.

"You got family, Pretty Boy?" For whatever reason, it's not quite as annoying anymore when Gary says it. "Wife, girlfriend?"

Dean's feeling better, but the thought of food still isn't really tripping his trigger; he pokes his fork into the stroganoff on his plate and shrugs. "Nobody special."

"So what do you do when you aren't puking?"

"Travel around. Odd jobs." He glances at Larry, who stuffs his mouth with half a slice of bread and -- wisely, Dean thinks -- says nothing about how they met. "Me and my dad."

"See?" Gib reaches across the table and rubs his hand over Alex's exuberant hair. "Father and son. Way it should be."

Dean smiles, listens while Alex bitches a little and Gib gives him shit, thinks about Dad and what the hell he's doing right now. He'll be done with Mississippi, surely, but there's no telling where he's off to next. Last month they met up in Nebraska, but Dad's funny, can't tell what the hell is going through his mind, not since Sammy split and things went so far south. Dean just hopes he's kept himself relatively safe, thinks about how this damn money is gonna see them through the spring, and they damn well better have a good season here on board. Make it all worth it.

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

Turns out the pots on board aren't all the pots they'll be fishing. According to Gary they'll pick up about a hundred more in Dutch Harbor.

"And you're gonna bait every damn one of 'em," Gary says, grinning so big he's all teeth.

The bait is cod, live, and herring or some shit, frozen. That, too, they'll pick up in Dutch, along with actual human food, fuel, whole lot of other crap.

When Dean asks, Gib says, "Well, we're still a couple days out. Season'll start a week later. We got good weather right now, hopefully it'll hold a couple more weeks."

The weather's clear, but it's cold on the water, wind slicing off the waves like piano wire, until salt and chill and brittle sunshine make Dean feel like his face is gonna fall off. It's kind of godawful, until one day out of Dutch, facing west into the setting sun, standing in the bow and ignoring the burn of salt water in his eyes, staring down into the trough between the waves.

It's huge and fucking scary, and exhilarating, and he looks at Dave standing a few feet away, laughing his ass off, and Dean realizes he's got the world's biggest shit-eating grin on his face. All those things, and it's beautiful, too, and he leans his head back and whoops for the sheer hell of it, in the moment.

And then there's a flyspeck of a town, and a shitload of boats, and they're at Dutch Harbor.

"Dude, Unalaska?" He laughs. "What, is it NOT Alaska?"

The town's got a hilarious name, but he's glad to see land, staggers and lists a little when his feet hit the boards. There's work, putting out anchor and stowing shit on the boat, and then they got a couple days before they turn around and start getting the _Sally_ ready for the season.

Dean spends the first evening at a big old barn of a bar, along with what looks and feels like the rest of the entire fishing fleet, and about a dozen extremely popular chicks.

One of the chicks is named Tracey, and she doesn't appear to care at all when Dean's crewmates call him Pretty Boy. In fact Tracey makes it clear she agrees, and damn well approves.

"You do what again?" he yells over the music.

Tracey gets closer so he can hear her, which involves her slithering into his lap. All he can hear is something about counting, and he grins and says against her ear, "Tally girl, huh? I can think of lots better things for us to count than fish --"

And a meaty hand slams down on his shoulder. The girl scrambles out of his lap, and Dean looks around to see a guy with broken teeth looming over him.

"What the fuck," the guy rumbles, pretty much echoing exactly what Dean's thinking.

"He's not my boyfriend," Tracey says, but she looks really nervous, and she's put a lot of air between herself and Dean.

Dean stands up and feels his hands already wanting to curl into fists. "Whoa, now. You two got an understanding, I'm not messing with that, all right? Buy you a drink?"

The guy -- Sam's height and some change, and looking like barroom brawls are his favorite kind of light exercise -- curls a lip and pushes Dean hard, in the center of his chest. "Gonna regret that."

"So are you," Dean says calmly, and the guy's staggering back, blood running from his split lip. Dean's fist feels like he just punched a wall, but he's got adrenaline going now, knows he can go a while longer.

A space has cleared around them, bar gone a little quieter, and nobody steps up to stop things when King Kong takes a swing at him. Easily dodged, the guy may be huge and strong but his version of fast ain't fast enough, and Dean lands a solid blow on his jaw, snaps the guy's head around and earns another couple of feet of retreat.

"I don't wanna fight you, man," Dean says evenly, bouncing a little on his toes. "No harm, no foul, right?"

Kong just growls and tries again. It's kind of ridiculously easy to fight him: just like any number of big, stupid, strong dudes Dean's fought in the past, men who figured brawn trumps agility and training until they went up against John Winchester or one of his sons. Dean's knuckles are gonna hurt tomorrow, and the dude gets in one good blow to his belly, which will bruise. But overall it's a joke, and in another couple of minutes the asshole's sliding down to the floor for what looks like a nice quiet little nap.

Larry's right there, looking alarmed, and lifts his chin in the direction of the door. Dean sighs, gulps the last of his cheap beer and follows. He's aware of people watching, still silent, while they leave.

"Last guy Tanner fought, he put in the fucking hospital," Larry tells him outside, breath pluming in the crisp air. "Jesus, Dean, what the hell?"

"Just having a friendly drink," Dean says, shaking out his right hand. Hopefully hadn't broken anything, but damn, that stung. "I wasn't looking for a fight, man."

"Found you anyway, though, didn't it? This happen to you a lot?"

"Time to time." Dean looks at him, and sees Larry grinning.

"You're gonna fit right in, kid," Larry pronounces, and slaps him on the shoulder. "You put him DOWN. Been here eight hours and already getting a rep. Awesome."

"Whatever."

He's got no money for a hotel, so Larry's letting him bunk on the couch of the crappy little apartment he and Dave rent for the season. Dean's slept on lots worse. He sees the look on Dave's face -- word's gotten around already, woo hoo -- and nods his thanks, crashes and sleeps for twelve hours.

* * *

By the time Gib calls them all to start loading the boat, Dean's figured out that he's not gonna get laid in this town, at least not easily and not soon, and that fighting somebody like Ed Tanner means there are other guys who'd like to see how well they do against him. His hands are hamburger and he's got a big, impressive shiner by the time he and Larry and Dave show up at the _Sally_, bright and early two days later.

Gib isn't impressed. He gives Dean a sour look, and then says, "All right, folks, we got gear to load and supplies to buy. Time's wasting."

It takes the rest of the week to get ready, and it's harder work than it should be. The boat looks all right to Dean, but Gib's tense and picky as shit, and so everything has to be gone over once, and then again for good measure. Stocking spare parts, poking at the engines and making sure everything's functioning 100%, going over the hydraulics and inspecting the wheelhouse.

Hell, they've already made one voyage, and Dean figures if things were gonna go wrong they already would have.

"That wasn't the Bering Sea," Gary says shortly. "And things will go wrong. Just gotta be prepared, that's all."

There's about three metric tons of groceries to buy, and somewhere around the coffee aisle Gary asks, "Can you cook?"

"A little, I guess. What, I'm bait boy and cook both?"

"I can't, and Larry burns everything."

Dean snorts and says, "Cooked some for my dad and my brother. Dunno."

The price tag is impressive, as is the number of carts it takes to carry all the shit they buy. When that's loaded there's bait to store, miles of rope to cut and coil, and everything to be inspected by Gib, who makes them move all of it around about seven times before he's satisfied.

A day before they're due to ship out, the real inspectors show up. Fire drill, a Q&amp;A about safety, and Dean gets his first and hopefully only taste of fumbling his way into a survival suit.

"Jesus," he says breathlessly while struggling to zip the fucker up. "Like putting on a straitjacket."

Dave snickers. "Got some experience with those, Pretty Boy?"

"Pay attention," Gib snaps. "That suit could save your damn life."

Dean shuts up.

It is kinda like a straitjacket, though.

* * *

They pass the safety inspections, and they're ready to go.

And they just sit there.

"What's the holdup?" Dean asks, fidgeting from one foot to the other.

Gib's chain-smoking in the wheelhouse, so much that Dean can barely see in the windows. It's brisk and cold outside, water a little choppy in the bay, and Dean wonders a little uneasily what it's like out beyond the protection of the peninsula.

"Gotta get the green light first. Fish and Game Department." Dave looks as antsy as Dean feels. He's smoking, too -- hell, everyone on this boat smokes like chimneys -- and offers Dean one. He takes it, more out of courtesy than inclination. "When they say go, we go."

"They say jump, we just ask how high, right?"

"That's about it." Dave exhales smoke, blown away so fast it hardly registers. "Short season, maybe three, four days. Balls to the wall, greenhorn."

"Ten-four," Dean says softly. The smoke burns his throat, and he crushes the cigarette under the toe of his boot.

He tries calling his dad again. Like all the other times, he gets voice mail. Christ Jesus, the man can't return a call in nearly two weeks? What the everlasting fuck?

The connection's dubious at best, so he makes it short. "It's me. Listen, I got this job, you know, short-term, whatever, and I'm kinda wondering where the hell you are, Dad. Anyway, I, ah, yeah, I'm gonna be on the job for a while, so if you don't hear from me, that's why. I dunno how good reception'll be out here. But try me anyway. Later."

It isn't enough, but hell, he doesn't even know if Dad's been GETTING the messages he's leaving, so what difference does it make? Screw it.

But worry surges in his belly: haven't heard from him since Mississippi, what if something happened, is he okay, where the fuck IS HE.

"Dean, dude." Gary's leaning out over the rail. "Hop to it. We're outta here, Gib's gonna leave your ass here if you don't get aboard."

The rail's slick, and his phone rings just as he's grappling with wet metal. His foot slips, and his stomach does a couple of full gainers before he scrambles over. He's heard about guys falling while getting on the boats. He'd just as soon not meet his end as a smear between a prow and a pier, thanks just the same.

His phone isn't ringing now. He pats his pocket, which is alarmingly flat.

"Aw, SHIT," he says, looking over the rail like he could see the stupid fucker floating on the waves.

"What?" Gary frowns at him.

"Lost my goddamn phone. Bloop, went right in, I guess."

Gary grins. "Screw it. You can buy another one when we get back to port. You'll be able to afford it then."

Dean sighs and gives another despairing look at the dark water. "Damn it."

Moving out, there's a prayer over some PA system, tinny but clearly audible. Dean's always been uncomfortable with prayer, never saw any use in it, has never bothered. But he stands still while some of the men he sees on nearby boats bend their heads, and he thinks, Where were you, when my dad was risking his life over and over again? When I was? Who was praying for us? Who even thought to do it?

He watches the horizon, the line of restless water and the endless vista beyond, until the PA system crackles to an end. And he keeps his eyes on the open water while the Sally heads out.

* * *


	4. Chapter 4

Bait sucks.

Jesus H. freaking Christ, it smells godawful. He's spent the last four hours at the chipper, just slamming blocks of frozen herring or sardines or whatever the FUCK this shit is, grinding it up into this mash that he puts into bags, and now he's standing in front of a pile of dead cod. Not very dead yet, but the smell is in his nostrils and won't go away while he braces his hip against the table and stabs another hook through a fish's face.

Yummy.

None of it's helped by the weather. Dean's introduction to the sea is walking out on deck, slipping on water and fish guts and falling flat on his ass.

"You okay there, Pretty Boy?" Gary peers down at him, his beard already looking frosted in the cold. Or maybe that's just salt.

"Fine," Dean wheezes from the deck. "Just gimme a sec."

The Bering Sea is gigantic -- sort of like, well, a sea, except this is much more up close and personal than he's ever been in his life -- and cold, and rough, and black. Spray smacks him in the face while he climbs up, rain is blowing horizontally, and all told he has no freaking clue why crab fishing means going out at the shittiest time of year imaginable. Why not do it in summer, when it's warm? Or maybe it's like this all year up here? Who the hell knows?

Dave and Alex are up untying the top layer of pots, Gary's fiddling with the crane, and Larry takes Dean aside. "So, baiting the pots."

Dean flicks a fish cornea off his finger and looks at him. He's already tired, sort of sick at his stomach, not quite to the puking stage but way closer than he'd like, and he already knows this is his job for the next however-many days. Ain't no amount of money worth doing this crap. "What."

"Trick is to be fast. We gotta drop a string of twenty, twenty-five pots before we move on, and the wind's gonna be up to 25 knots by two o'clock."

It's ten in the morning, and they've been working since six. There are a couple hundred pots. Dean gives an impatient nod. "Dude, you think I wanna linger over this shit?" He gestures at the pile of dead fish. It seems as if they're all looking at him from the corners of their dead eyes, and he wonders if a quick exorcism might fix things. Possessed cod. Yeehaw. "I'll be fast. Just get the damn pots going."

Larry looks at him sideways, too, one eyebrow lifted. Maybe Dean'll exorcise him, too. "Gib likes things fast, Dean. Pop, pop, pop, keep 'em going."

"Dude, I GET it."

The first pot sways over the deck, pushed around by the wind, and Dean watches while the guys position it on the launcher. Climbing in to hang the bait is harder than it sounded, and he's already banged the shit out of his right elbow. Pain numbs his arm while he works, and he slides out to see everyone looking impatient.

"Faster," Larry snaps in his ear before the buzzer sounds, launcher lifting the pot and sliding it off into the sea.

"Faster, Dean," comes Gib's voice over the PA.

"Jesus," Dean says hoarsely, quietly enough that hopefully only Larry hears. "Just popped my fucking bait cherry and you want me to be warp speed here? Cut me some slack."

"Not gonna happen."

By the third pot he's given up any hope of coming out of this without head-to-toe bruises. He doesn't climb in to hang bait; he throws himself in, pissed off because no matter how much faster he's getting it's never gonna be fast enough. It's so fucking COLD. His hands are numb in spite of gloves, his eyes are streaming tears from the wind and the salt, and it is not gonna be fucking worth it.

End of that string, Gib gives them a break while they head over to the next spot, half an hour or so. There's no sign of any other boats, and the promised higher winds have arrived right on schedule.

It's incredibly annoying that everyone else acts like this is the best damn thing ever.

"Nah, remember Atchison?" Dave says. Middle of a conversation Dean is only marginally listening to. "Got so pissed that time when the dogs broke on the launcher?"

What the hell is a dog in shipspeak, Dean thinks, rubbing his sore shoulder.

Larry tells him later, looking happy as a clam. "Holds the pot on the launcher. Otherwise it'll fly all over the place, hurt somebody."

"Launcher's got a seatbelt, huh."

Larry laughs joyously. "Exactly!"

The next string is thirty pots, and not much of a break before they set twenty or so more. It's dark already, he's hungry as hell, and when he asks Larry about when's chow time he gets a blank look.

"Man, we don't stop till all these pots are soaking."

Dean stares at him. "That's like, more than a hundred left to go."

"Yeah." Larry nods like, and your point would be?

"Aw, fuck ME," Dean whispers.

* * *

Right now it's anger alone that's keeping him on his feet. They've been at it nearly thirty hours, by Dean's count. He's hung more bait than he knew existed on the PLANET, watched more pots set than he knew they carried, and shit, it ain't like THAT'S too hard, work a goddamn crane and let hydraulics do the heavy shit for you. They can hydraulic-lift his ASS as far as he's concerned.

To top it off he's puked four times already but he's hungry, too, makes sense because his stomach is so goddamn empty, but damn. It just never stops.

Except he's just standing there, mouth watering like maybe he's gonna hork again, ready to hang another couple of really dead fish in the next pot, but there isn't one.

Something touches his shoulder, and he flinches, looks over and sees Gary standing next to him, leaning close. "That's it!" Gary yells over the wind. "Last one! Let's grab some chow!"

Dean blinks salt spray out of his eyes, and when Gary tugs on his arm he follows blindly, so stunned that it's over that he can't even think. Inside the boat it's warm, and a wave of exhaustion slams into him like a forty-foot wave, thick and mindless.

"Damn, boy," Gary says, still grasping Dean's shoulder. He's grinning, even though his face is carved in the same lines of tiredness Dean feels. "Stand down, all right?"

Dean nods dumbly, and starts peeling off his slicker.

There's food in the galley, hot and bland and tons of it. He sits at the table and stares down at his laden plate. The idea of picking up a fork is so complicated he isn't sure he can do it. He'd rather put his cold face down and warm it up a little.

The guys are jabbering about crap that sounds like a foreign language. His eyes flicker closed, and Gib catches him before he does a face-plant right in his brisket.

"You did all right," Gib says, a little half-smile curling one side of his mouth. "Not bad so far."

"Dude, Pretty Boy here's a bait machine," Gary announces. He sounds weird, like he's fucking proud or something. Dean can't think what the hell he's proud of, though. God, he's tired.

He eats enough to make his stomach stop growling, waits until it looks like it'll settle rather than come right back up again. The guys are still talking, looking as tired as he feels, and nobody stops him when he gets up and goes to his bunk. He's instantly asleep.

* * *

Gary wakes him up, sounding hoarse. Dean blinks up at him, squinting in the cabin light. "You have GOT to be shitting me," he tries to say, but Gary just shakes him again.

"Everybody on deck. Time to earn some money, greenhorn."

They slam hot, strong coffee, and then gear up in silence. Dean's never been this stiff, this sore, in his entire freaking life. He doesn't know any of these people, and a sharp ache of homesickness curls in his aching belly, for Sam, comfy in his college life, Dad, who's -- well, who the hell knows? Saving people, hunting things, it's the Winchester gig, and what the everlasting hell is Dean doing out here? At this rate no matter what the paycheck, he'll be laid up for a fucking week just getting over it.

His mouth tastes bitter, like metal or blood. Has Dad even noticed he's incommunicado? He isn't really sure he believes he has.

Weather's no better. Hell, at least the cold water in his face wakes him up a little.

"Cheer up, Pretty Boy," Gary tells him, taking a last drag on his cigarette. "This is what makes it all worth it."

Alex gives Dean a halfway sympathetic look. "Five bucks a pound, man. Ten or twelve pounds a crab. Do the math."

Dean wipes water out of his eyes. "For real? No wonder I never eat this shit."

The first pot comes up with 22 keepers. Larry gives him the Cliff's Notes on how to sort crab: no females, no males smaller than six and a half inches. Other than getting pinched by a big motherfucker's claws, this part is a lot easier. Well, that and the fact that the deck is shimmying and dipping under his feet, sending him sliding into the rail a couple of times.

By the fourth pot, according to Gary they're totally on the crab. The deck crew is grinning like there's no tomorrow, laughing off the waves that crash over the ship with scary regularity. Dean's got the hang of picking out keepers, and he's watching Gary as carefully as time and the sea allow, checking out how he runs the hydraulics, the bridle that holds the pots in place, the dogs on the launcher.

"Didn't used to be any cranes on the ships," Dave tells him, sorting crab elbow to elbow. "Guys used to pull up pots by hand."

"How much this weigh? A ton, at least."

"At least," Dave agrees. "We got it easy, Pretty Boy."

The first string's good, the second isn't all that great, and the third kicks all their asses. The pots are jammed with crab, big spiny fuckers running twelve to fifteen pounds. Even Gib is laughing while he shouts orders over the PA, and he's stopped riding Dean's ass so hard. The catch is good enough they're dropping the pots back as soon as they're empty, so Dean goes back to bait duty. Now that he sees what the results are, it isn't quite as mindlessly horrible, but it still ain't exactly cushy.

By the end of the fourth string of pots they've got about 40,000 pounds of crab in the tank, by anyone's measure a damn good start. Gib's had them lay pots in a rough half-circle, about eighteen miles of sea, and there's a little break before they get to the next string. Everyone wolfs down sandwiches and coffee, and while they're talking Larry draws him into the hallway outside the galley and says, "How you holding up, Dean?"

Dean swallows hot bitter coffee and gives a short laugh. "You mean, aside from the fact that I've never been this cold and exhausted in my goddamn life? I'm all right."

Larry nods. "Just, I got stuff. You know. If you need it."

"What kinda stuff?"

"Pills. You know, keep you awake. We got a lot of pots left to haul."

Larry's eyes are too dilated in the bright light. Dean takes another sip of the crappy coffee and shakes his head slowly. "Nah, that's all right," he says easily. "I can suck it up."

"Just. If you want it. Ain't like everyone else isn't doing it."

"I never been much at following the crowd."

It surprises him more than it should; really, after fifty-odd hours of almost solid work and three crappy hours of sleep, a bump of something would probably be helpful. But he can hear Dad in his head, has learned from years of that example, and he's never really given much thought to drugs. Oh, toked a few here and there, and he likes beer and whiskey. But the other shit, he just has never been particularly tempted. Maybe it's fear of what Dad would do if he did. A realistic fear.

Funny thing is, the other guys don't look like they're in any better shape than he is. He drinks another cup of coffee and when Gib calls them back on deck, he's pretty much as ready as he'll ever be.

* * *

It's lucky number seven when things go south.

The catch isn't as incredible here, a few pots of water, assorted cod and octopus, and no huge crab to help the mood. It's tanking, exhaustion catching up with everyone. They need a damn break, that much is for sure, but they won't be getting one.

Dean figures that's why it happens. Slippery deck, worsening weather sending fifteen-foot waves crashing over the rail, and a group of guys so tired they can't remember their own names. He's standing a few feet from the rail, still sputtering at a faceful of brine, and it's coincidence he's looking at Alex when it happens. That's what sticks in his gut later: He could just as easily have been looking elsewhere. Just a coin toss, that's all, kismet, something.

But he's looking, and he sees the wave that sweeps Alex off his feet. Kid's tall but skinny, long tall drink of water, and he flips right over the rail.

Dean's leaping before he thinks. Kid hanging by one hand over the side, and Dean's screaming, "Man overboard," and bolting over, slipping and grabbing the kid's bony wrist and hearing him give a yell, feeling those bones grinding beneath his fingers.

"Don't drop me!" Alex screams.

It's the next wave that takes Dean, too.

No transition, just hundreds, thousands of gallons of water, so cold his body jerks with instinctive spasm, and he's falling, grappling for that rail as it goes by and catching it, Alex hanging from his other arm a solid dead weight. His shoulder creaks, damned old injury, HOLD, you mother, just HOLD.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ!" Gary's got him by the front of his slicker, yanking for all he's worth, but there are two men hanging, not one, and both drenched, heavier than they normally are. Alex dangles useless from Dean's hand, mostly in the water and gasping and sputtering.

Some part of his brain, familiar and yet unexpected, says, _Been here before, Dean-o. Remember Galveston? That haunted mansion? Sammy hanging from your hand, looking up into your eyes and saying, I know you won't drop me. And you didn't, Dean. And you ain't gonna now, either._

It takes Gary and Dave both to haul them up and over, and then Gib's there, too, silent and mouth tight with a look that is also familiar. Dad's face, after Dean had pulled Sammy back up on the balcony, Dad's silence while he looked Sammy over for wounds and found none, after he saw the way Dean's arm hung useless, the first of three different dislocations.

"Come on, get inside." Gary's hustling him in, Gib dragging Alex with him.

"He -- He saved my life," Alex blurts, voice high and strangled. He sounds about twelve. "He didn't let me go. He held on."

Nobody says anything. Larry's stripping off Dean's slicker, and it's only inside that he realizes how bad he's shaking, how incredibly bone-deep cold he is. Alex's lips are blue, teeth chattering audibly.

But it's Gib who wraps Dean in a heavy blanket. Silent, white-faced Gib, who snugs the cloth around Dean's shoulders, and then stands there with his throat working, swallowing, hands tight on Dean's arms before he turns back to see to his son.

* * *


	5. Chapter 5

That's kinda when it all changes a little. Sure, Gib's so glad Dean saved his kid's life that he'd already mumbled something about slipping him a couple of percentage shares when they make landfall in a day or two, and yeah, Alex is so glad not to be dead that Dean's kinda wondering if he suddenly gotten another younger brother. One that clings like the first one stopped doing. Sorta like a tumor, only a pretty good-natured one.

But it's more than that. He's not a damn greenhorn anymore. He's got his shit to do, everyone else does, and they fit together pretty well.

He wakes up from a two-hour sleep, tired as he's ever been in his life and sick of the smell of seawater and fish, and thinks, Feels like I'm part of the crew now.

It ain't a bad feeling, and that sorta scares him. His real crew's split up -- Sam off following his goddamn yellow brick road and Dad, God only knows where -- and it almost feels like a betrayal that he LIKES these men, he likes busting his ass fishing for crab, staring the bottomless black Bering in the eye and spitting. Makes his blood flow faster, his heart thump wild and satisfied in his chest.

He sits in his bunk rubbing gritty eyes and thinking, what does it mean? He's spent maybe ten minutes thinking about what it would be like not to hunt, ten minutes total in the past few years, and those as a direct result of Sammy flying the coop. Otherwise it's just never been an issue. Hunting's what he does; it's the family business, it's his life's calling. And now here he is, smack-dab in the middle of the sea, tired as shit and happy as a clam.

Doesn't make sense, and so he shakes his head hard, flips Gary the bird when he sticks his head in to yell about time to get on deck, and grabs his long-johns.

* * *

He's got nothing to compare it to, but according to the other guys, it's a damn fine catch this time out.

"Season ends at six tomorrow morning," Gib announces over a huge, heart-attack-inducing breakfast. Dean isn't worried about the calories; he figures he's dropped an easy ten pounds already. "One more day. Gotta make it count."

The weather cooperates for once, isn't as terrible as it's been, and they pull one string of forty pots that are just crammed with big crab, keepers almost all. The Sally's got two tanks, and the first is full and the second getting there, and the crab keep coming.

It's while they're sorting one of those pots that Dave calls, "Hey, Lucky, pass me that plastic."

Dean looks around, sees Dave looking at him, and hands over the plastic, watches Dave measure his crab before saying, "Lucky?"

Dave doesn't look at him, just goes on shoving crab down the chute, and it's Larry who says, "Hey, if the name fits."

Catching Alex has turned him into the crew's lucky charm, and there are no more Pretty Boy jibes, nothing but a new nickname. He isn't just accepted, he's wanted, and it gives him more of the curious flickering feeling in his belly, that sense of unreality.

By nightfall it's back to thirty-knot winds and twenty-foot swells, and nobody's joking around; just want to get the job done, get this crab to the processor alive, and get paid. The clock's ticking, and even if they've had a good catch this year none of it'll matter unless it's all still squirming when they cash out.

Alex doesn't talk much, but he sticks by Dean's side. Maybe he's scared he'll get swept overboard again, doesn't want to take any chances. The way the sea's behaving Dean wouldn't call it impossible, and it's cold enough to ice things up some, too. While the rest of them keep on pulling pots he climbs up to start chipping ice off the wheelhouse, and soon he's got Alex there, too, silently whacking away at the growing sheath of white on the metal surfaces.

They pull a pot at five to six, with four left to go.

"Man, that sucks," Larry says, shaking his head. "Gotta let the rest of 'em go."

"Dude, at this rate we'd be carrying them in our hands," Dean says tiredly. "We're full."

More than full, they're stuffed to the max. It's about six hours' steaming to the processor ship, and Dean spends the time conked out in his bunk, a soggy dreamless sleep that leaves him feeling groggy and clumsy by the time they go to offload.

"So how long's it been since you hurled?" Gary asks him, grinning at the rail.

"Can't remember."

"Made a sailor out of you. Bet you didn't think it could be done."

Dean shrugs, and accepts one of Gary's cigarettes.

Takes a good eight hours for offloading, and it's another first for Dean: the waiting while they see what kind of shape the crab are in. Fortunately there's very little dead loss; Gib tells a sour story about two or three seasons ago, rougher seas than they've had this trip out, and dead loss that really ate into the profits. No money for dead crab.

"So what are your plans once we hit Dutch?" Gib exhales smoke through his nostrils, his eyes sharp on Dean's face.

Dean lifts his eyebrows and shrugs. "Shit, I dunno. Get paid, go find my dad. Get back to work."

The corner of Gib's mouth lifts in a half-smile. "This wasn't work?"

"Hell, yeah. Just -- not my usual gig."

"What is your gig? That amulet you got on -- That isn't bullshit, is it?"

Dean looks away, watching the men in the hold loading another 10,000 pounds of crab. "Not exactly, no."

"So what is your usual line of work?"

"Hunting things. Saving people."

"Like my boy out there?"

Dean gives another limp shrug. "I guess. Yeah."

There's a long silence, and then Gib says, "Larry told me about what you did for him and his woman. That thing in their house."

It's a surprise, but not as much of one now that he's seen how the crew works, how close it makes you. "Then you know what it is I do."

"Hell of a life."

"And this isn't?" Dean laughs, and glances at him. "Jesus Christ, you guys are insane."

There's a big grin on Gib's face, and it takes Dean a second to realize it's the first he's ever seen the skipper make. "Without question," Gib says immediately. "And you fit right in. You gonna stick around a while? I'll ship back out in a week or so. We'll do a cod run first, not as big money but not half bad. Then it's opie season. Snow crab."

It puts an unfathomable lump in Dean's throat, and he goes blank, can't think of a word to say.

"You work your ass off," Gib continues in that even, matter-of-fact voice. "You pull your weight and more, and I'm prepared to offer you a full deckhand spot. No questions asked. That's five percentage points. Damn good money."

"Sounds good," Dean says thickly. "I got responsibilities, man. I got work to do." He swallows and says, "Not that I don't appreciate it."

"No, I get what you're saying. Well, then. Our loss."

"Thanks," Dean whispers.

Gib rummages in his jacket pocket, pulls out his wallet. "Here's my card." He hands it over. "If you're available next season, you let me know. I'll hold a space for you, long as I can."

"Might take you up on that," Dean says, although he doubts it. Where the hell will they be this time next year? Maine? Texas, Florida? Who the hell knows? Shit, they could be dead this time next year.

"You do that," Gib says, nods firmly. When he walks away, Dean lets go of a breath he hadn't known he was holding.

* * *

They blow into Dutch Harbor 750,000 pounds lighter and a shitload richer. Dean hasn't gotten paid yet; that happens when they drop anchor. But the sight of the port fills him with a weird sense of mixed relief and disappointment. Hard as it's been, it's been invigorating, too -- the scariest, stupidest, weirdest work he's ever done, and part of him's not glad it's done.

His check, when he gets it, is a lot bigger than he'd thought it would be.

"Meant what I said," Gib tells him, with no smile this time. "You're good people. You come on back next year. See if we can't triple that for you."

"Sounds good." Dean nods awkwardly. "Thanks, sir."

When he first steps off onto the pier, he reels like he's coming off a three-day bender. And barely has time to catch himself, before he sees a familiar face.

"God DAMN it, Dean," Dad says harshly, and maybe it's how tired Dean is, or the being on land thing, but when his father belts him one he goes down like his jaw is made from the finest blown glass.

He blinks, staring up at the blue sky, and distantly hears someone saying, "What the FUCK," and then the wooden pier is rattling beneath him, guys pelting by, Larry helping him sit up in time to see the rest of the crew surrounding his father. They don't exactly look like a welcoming party, either. There's a bruise on Dad's cheekbone that wasn't there a few seconds ago, and Dave and Larry are holding onto him like they're gonna finish the job in another second or two.

Larry glances over. His face is as hard as Dean's ever seen. "You all right there, Dean?"

Dean shoves at him, scrambles to his feet. Still weaving -- this time he's pretty sure it's not just the sea-legs getting in his way -- he catches up, shoves his way through the clot of men and yells, "He's my goddamn DAD."

The guys regard him in ominous silence. Dad's fingering his jaw -- somebody got in at least one blow, and from the scary look on Alex's face, so like Sam when you got on his bad side, it sends a quiver through Dean's spine -- it was him.

"Look, I tried to let you know," Dean says hoarsely. "But my phone's about 200 feet down, and we were fucking busy, okay?"

"Don't FUCK with him, all right?" Alex snarls at Dad, like he didn't even see Dean standing there. He's practically frothing at the mouth. "He's a goddamn HERO."

Dad doesn't say a word. Stands there, eyes flickering between Dean and this crew of scruffy, mean-looking guys, and Dean can practically hear him calculating the odds. Not good, Dad, all right? Not any freaking good, so just stand the fuck down.

"It's all right," Dean says clearly. He faces Alex's hot stare, nods slowly. "It's all right, dude. Just a misunderstanding. Chill."

"What the hell is this?" Dad asks him. The rest of them have been banished from the equation: now it's just Dean and John Winchester, Dad looking like he'd really like to keep on hammering instead of talking. "Do you know how long I've been looking for you? Christ, Dean, you vanish off the planet and you don't tell me where you ARE? I trained you better than that!"

It's like the cumulative exhaustion of the past week all crashes in on him at once. Jesus. He's got twelve grand burning a hole in his pocket -- more than enough to see them through till summer, if they're stingy -- he's done a job he really didn't think he COULD do at first, he's done well for himself, and this is his father's reaction. His mouth tastes bitter, like copper. "Well, fuck, Dad, I tried," he says, listing his way across the pier, hoping the rest of the crew isn't dogging him still. He's too tired to be embarrassed, but it's a near thing. "Who went silent first? Huh?"

Dad isn't at his side, and a moment later Dean stops, looks back. Dad's standing there, arms limp at his sides. There's a lot of gray in his beard, in his hair. He looks old, and weirdly confused. "Fishing?" he says after a long moment. "In ALASKA?"

Dean snorts, and feels a laugh bubbling up from deep inside. "Some crazy shit, right?" He laughs out loud, shakes his head. "Come on. I'll buy you a beer. Because I need one bad. You got NO idea."

* * *

The Elbow Room's packed, but Dean scores them a table near the back, and a pitcher. The beer tastes like pure ambrosia, and he slams one and pours another before he looks at Dad again.

"Twelve thousand," Dean says evenly. "That's why."

Dad gazes at him. "Twelve thousand. Dollars?"

"Shit, yeah. You think I'd do this crazy-ass job if it wasn't frigging lucrative?"

Dad still hasn't tasted his beer yet. "You earned twelve thousand dollars?" he echoes.

Dean gives a vigorous nod. "Bankroll us for a good stretch, no goddamn scams for a while. Shit, I'm sorry I didn't get hold of you beforehand. I tried, dude, I did."

"I thought --" Dad breaks off, rubs his hand over his face. "Well, you don't wanna know what I thought."

"Dad," Dean says gently. "Have a beer. It's on me."

They've mostly polished off the pitcher by the time Alex shows up. He's carrying a bottle, and it's the good stuff, Johnny. He yanks over a chair, and in another five minutes the rest of the guys are huddled around Dean's tiny table. They give Dad some space, but Dean's crammed up against his crewmates, they all stink like hell, and he's buzzed enough that it feels damn good.

"To the Long Tall Sally's lucky charm," Gary pronounces, holds up a shot of whiskey. It's the first of about fifteen toasts, most of them to fat healthy crab and Dean's lucky-charm status. Dad drinks, but he keeps silent, watching, while Dean gets completely hammered.

When half the bottle is gone, the hugs start. "Damn fine sailor," Gary pronounces, clasping his shoulders and staring into his eyes. "Damn fine. After the barfing stopped."

Unsurprisingly it's Alex who hugs him hardest and longest, and Dean wants to say, Dude, not so much with the touchy-feely thing, but Alex pounds him on the back so hard he nearly spews his whiskey, so it's manly enough.

They're bellowing about the drunken sailor and what you do with him -- a song to which Dean knows about three words, although that doesn't stop him -- when Dad finally cracks a smile. "Come on, champ," he says against Dean's ear, hand warm and solid on Dean's shoulder. "You look like you could use about a week of sleep."

"Say that again," Dean slurs. The floor's even harder to negotiate now, but Dad's got his back. "S'good feelin'," Dean says, clinging hard to his father's arm. "Out there, and right here."

"What's a good feeling?" Dad steers him between the tables, manages to get them both past a fight about to break out.

"Got m' back. You and them bo'."

Dad squints at him and says, "You got skinnier, but I still don't feel like carrying you."

"I c'n make it." Outside the air is crisp and achingly cold, and Dean blinks. "Where we goin'?"

"Motel. You sleep it off. We got a plane to catch tomorrow."

"A PLANE?" Dean shakes his head, and the street in front of him wavers. "Nuh-uh. Got a BOAT."

"I got you some Dramamine. You'll be fine. Come on, hot shot. Time to crash."

He doesn't remember much of the walk. Unfortunately he remembers the plane ride the next day. But for the moment at least, he can deal. After the Bering Sea, it just doesn't seem quite as scary as usual.

Dad's truck is parked at the airport, and they climb in before Dad says, "So. Where'd you leave the car?"

"In town. Covered parking."

"Good boy." Dad pauses with his hand on the ignition. His look is hard to read.

Dean frowns at him. "What?"

Dad clears his throat. "While I was waiting. For you. I, ah." He stares ahead, out the rain-swept windshield. "Heard a few things, about crab fishing. Tough job."

"You got NO idea."

Dad looks at him, eyes crinkling at the corners. "You did a good job there, son. Not bad at all."

Face hot, Dean turns to look out the window. "Now see? You made me blush."

"Asshole."

"Like to see YOU try crab fishing. Fucking hard work."

"I can see we'll need a chat about your language when speaking to your father."

"Hell yeah. Now get me back to my damn car."

Dad grins, and puts the truck in gear.

 

**END**


End file.
